


Bloom

by VIII (Valkyrien)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: But It Turns Out The True Language Of Love Is Dedication To Acting Out Spiteful Motivations, F/M, Flowers Are The Language Of Love, If You're Going To Say 'Fuck You' To Someone Do It In Style, Modern AU, Say it with flowers, So It Stands To Reason They Used To Be A Language All Their Own, That And A Shared Resentment Of Interfering Parents, UK Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 08:08:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8136757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valkyrien/pseuds/VIII
Summary: This prompt was just begging to be written.

So, how do you say 'fuck you' in flower?





	

 

 

 

   A young man walks into a non-chain upmarket high-street florist one bright May morning and slaps a twenty-pound note onto the counter directly in front of the young woman arranging petunias artfully behind it.

 

 

   “I need a bouquet that says ' _fuck you_ ' in flower,” he says, face a thundercloud and voice an angry growl, and the young woman sets aside the petunias delicately and folds her hands upon the counter in front of her and regards the young man with a raised eyebrow but otherwise no expression.

 

 

   Silence reigns for half a beat and then he looks from her scarred face and around him at the well-ordered shop with its vast variety of floral decadences, and retracts the twenty-pound note, replacing it with a hundred-pound note and meeting the young woman's level gaze determinedly.

 

 

   “Of course, sir,” she says smoothly, sliding the note towards her and secreting it away,

 

 

   “Were you looking to convey your sentiments generally speaking or had you more of a targeted ' _up yours_ ' in mind as a response to some particular situation or slight?”

 

 

   “You're mocking me,” the young man snarls, and the young woman watches him with frosty severity.

 

 

   “I can assure you that I do not, sir. Sadly, however, the language of flowers has no direct answer to the message you would like to send, as I assume you did in fact mean that you wanted to send an _actual_ floral arrangement since otherwise an excellent way to convey the sentiment with flowers would be to simply have a dog piss on a peony and shove it through the offending party's letterbox,” she replies quite calmly,

 

 

   “But since you have deposited one hundred pounds into my keeping, I have an inkling that may not meet your standards, so I am acting on my presumption based on that, which is why I would instead offer to craft you a bespoke arrangement tailored to the event or situation which merits a sincere _'fuck you'_.”

 

 

   She pulls a large book from under the counter and opens it to a marked page which she sets before him, pointing to the pasted-in picture of a handsome and striking bouquet and remarking,

 

 

   “Here is one I created for a similar purpose to send to my father on the occasion of his announced intention to remarry.”

 

 

   “You're having me on,” the young man scoffs, but his attention is drawn by the double-tap of her pale finger upon the notes written below the picture in a neat hand -

 

 

   _Cardamine_ \- **paternal error** ; _Judas tree_ \- **betrayal** ; _Yellow rose_ \- **infidelity** ; _Wild tansy_ \- **I declare against you** ; _Mandrake_ \- **horror** ; _Evening Primrose_ \- **inconstancy** ; _Peony_ \- **shame** ; _Scabious_ \- **unfortunate love/widowhood/mourning** ; _Mourning bride_ \- **unfortunate attachment** ; _Columbine_ \- **folly** ; _Bee ophrys_ \- **error** ; _Rosebay_ \- **beware** ; _Alstroemeria_ \- **loyalty** ; _Garden anemone_ \- **forsaken**.

 

 

   “At the risk of sounding forward,” he amends after a brief clearing of his throat, in impressed tones, glancing from the picture into her impassive, damaged face,

 

 

   “I didn't know floristry could be this arousing. You sent that to your _dad?_ ”

 

 

   “Certainly,” she replies, words clipped but professional,

 

 

   “Would you like to see the associated paperwork - receipts, oblivious but stilted thank-you card I received in reply?”

 

 

   “Gods no, I believe you,” he assures her, open admiration under the gravel in his voice,

 

 

   “I clearly came to the right place.”

 

 

   “At the risk of sounding forward,” she echoes,

 

 

   “You most certainly did. The language of flowers was the subject of my Masters. So - how aggressively specific would you like this arrangement to be, and are you in need of a rush order?”

 

 

   “Right to it then?” he asks, and he grins at her winningly under the mess of his curls, and she blinks serenely.

 

 

   “If there is a certain message you have in mind to suit the recipient, or you require a more elaborate arrangement, I may have to special order some of the elements and work after hours to complete the order, all of which affects cost,” she informs him, and he pouts briefly and then renews his efforts.

 

 

   “I meant - why don't I take you to dinner and tell you exactly what the bloody thing's for, really give you something to work with?” he suggests, hopeful, and she raises her eyebrow again.

 

 

   “So I'm to understand that you _will_ be wanting an elaborate arrangement?” she asks professionally, and he nods decisively.

 

 

   “Oh, yes,” he tells her, cheeky grin in place. Her eyebrow stays put.

 

 

   “And you intend to pay for this proposed dinner?” she prompts, tone indicating that she seeks clarity and nothing more, and he nods again.

 

 

   “My treat,” he promises.

 

 

   “And this is not a misguided attempt to ply me with food less costly than the fruits of my labours will be and then later claim that said dinner ought to be taken as payment in itself for the floral arrangement?” she presses, and his grin becomes impressed.

 

 

   “Absolutely not - keep the hundred as a deposit, even - charge me whatever you like for the end result,” he suggests,

 

 

   “But please let me take you out. Wherever you'd like.”

 

 

   “If this is some sort of elaborate con intended to leave me out of pocket somehow, prepare yourself for the fact that you will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law,” she says levelly, and he nods.

 

 

   “Seems reasonable,” he replies agreeably.

 

 

   She watches him for a moment, a clear assessment, and her eyebrow returns to its original position nicely arched over one deep blue eye.

 

 

   “In that case, your deposited payment may prove insufficient to cover labour and materials, and you may wish to reconsider your invitation,” she says with neutral and somehow polite dignity, and it is his turn to raise an eyebrow but his grin doesn't go anywhere.

 

 

   “Because _you're_ going to fleece _me_ or because you're looking at me thinking I can't pay for a hideously expensive flower arrangement that's got to be a splendid monument to spite _and_ take a young lady out to a nice dinner all in the same month without ending up on the street?” he asks her, amusement layered thick over his voice and dancing behind his eyes.

 

 

   She smiles.

 

 

   “I forgot to introduce myself,” he says, grin now brilliant, proffering his hand,

 

 

   “I'm Rickon Stark, pleasure to meet you, Miss - ?”

 

 

   “Shireen Baratheon,” she replies politely, shaking his hand in a businesslike fashion, her grip firm.

 

 

   “Come to dinner with me this evening, Miss Baratheon. I'll tell you all about what I'm looking for in a floral statement,” he offers again, not letting go of her hand, and she looks at him with considering eyes.

 

 

   “Very well, Mr. Stark. Perhaps, time permitting, I can tell you exactly what _I'm_ looking for.”

 

 

   -

 

 

   “Have you heard from Shireen lately?” Davos asks, stirring his tea with a rhythmic clinking of spoon on china, and Stannis stirs irritably and raises his eyes from the report on his desk.

 

 

   “Not recently,” he says stiffly, and Davos widens his eyes briefly as if this can be a surprise and then continues mildly,

 

 

   “Oh, right, just thought maybe you'd seen that bit about her shop, in the paper.”

 

 

   “What paper?” Stannis demands, abandoning all pretence at composure,

 

 

   “When was this?”

 

 

   “Local paper,” Davos informs him casually, setting aside his spoon and leaning back,

 

 

   “'Bout a week ago, now. Lovely little spread, picture of the shop - Marya saved it, in case you missed it, it wasn' in the business section, came under _'Local News'_. Shame that, since the article was mostly about Shireen's business model. You know, she says some very sensible things about small business ownership and marketing techniques.”

 

 

   “Yes, well,” Stannis says irritably, glaring at Davos' ear disapprovingly,

 

 

   “She's always had a head for that sort of thing, it's why I wanted her to go into economics.”

 

 

   “Worked out alright though in the end, didn't it,” Davos remarks, choosing a biscuit from the tin and munching on it thoughtfully,

 

 

   “Article mentioned how she's been supplying all these grand do's of late. Did she tell you she did the centrepiece for that Stark thing? You know the one, annual benefit for troubled youth whatsit?”

 

 

   “No,” Stannis says curtly, grinding his teeth,

 

 

   “We haven't spoken in four months. She had to cancel our last appointment to meet, morning of. Something came up to do with the shop, I believe.”

 

 

   “Aye, well, she's inherited your work ethic,” Davos says sagely, waving his biscuit for emphasis,

 

 

   “'S all in the article. I'll bring it in for you tomorrow. Mind, I reckon she's balancing things nicely, taking time for herself - Devan said he saw her in town with one o' them Stark lads not long ago.”

 

 

   “ _What!_ ” Stannis exclaims, and Davos continues as if his employer and long-time friend has not turned an apoplectic shade of beetroot,

 

 

   “Oh, aye. Suppose they must have met at that charity thing.”

 

 

   “Which Stark boy? There are four of them!” Stannis barks, then frowns even harder and adds,

 

 

   “Not counting that _loathsome_ bumptious foster-son they took on, that Greyhame boy or whatever his name is - ”

 

 

   “Greyjoy,” Davos supplies, and Stannis grinds his teeth vigorously for a moment and then spits,

 

 

   “I don't _care_ what he's _called_ , I care that he's insulted my daughter publically on more than one occasion and attempted to seduce Robert's girl at her own father's funeral!”

 

 

   “You know Shireen steers clear of that lot,” Davos reminds him, stern with remembrance, then shrugs it off and goes on,

 

 

   “Anyway, I heard that sister of his took the lad in hand a while back and I don't fancy his chances getting away with that sort of nonsense with her at the helm, the little toe-rag. She'll not be half as soft on him as the Starks were.”

 

 

   “Pah - as if the Starks are any better!” Stannis scoffs derisively,

 

 

   “Spoilt brats, the lot of them! What on earth would my Shireen be wanting with one of _them_ , I ask you?”

 

 

   “Well, I couldn't say, but Devan thought they looked terribly cosy when he saw them,” Davos replies blandly, sipping tea and then adding,

 

 

   “Don't suppose they would have gone to a fancy restaurant just to settle the bill for the benefit flowers.”

 

 

   “Gone to a - ” Stannis repeats with growing ire and then bites it back and scowls blackly at Davos, snapping,

 

 

   “ _Absolutely not_ , Shireen would never do such a thing - the only one of them worth talking to is that poor lad Lannister ran over, and he's involved with the Reed child - ”

 

 

   “Children,” Davos mumbles into his tea, and Stannis waves him off.

 

 

   “Yes, fine, _children_ \- so completely unsuitable, Shireen would never countenance any sort of connection on that front, and what's left of them then? As far as I'm aware that leaves the cad, the bastard, and the wastrel!” he lists with mounting disgust, and Davos frowns.

 

 

   “They're not as bad as all that,” he attempts diplomatically, and Stannis levels a pointed look at him.

 

 

   “Really. The one whose parentage is _so_ questionable that the Starks have chosen to pretend that he's the product of some indiscretion of Ned's even though anyone who knows the man must realise that's impossible, and the one who chose to be unfaithful to his betrothed the night before their wedding citing _cold feet_ as if that were any sort of excuse, they're not _as bad as all that?_ ” he demands sarcastically, and Davos sighs.

 

 

   “Alright, so the eldest made some mistakes, that's as may be, and anyway I hear he's involved with someone else now so he's hardly a candidate, but wherever he's really from isn't exactly something the _Snow_ boy can help now is it?” he responds with level calm, and Stannis waves it away and then seizes upon the next point with vigour and a sternly raised finger of condemnation.

 

 

   “Be that as it may, who does that leave us? As far as I'm aware the youngest is some sort of delinquent and I'm not entirely certain he's not been disowned for it, for all his sainted mother does do all that blasted charity work for troubled youths - ” he begins hotly, and Davos shrugs and into the next slurp of his tea interrupts,

 

 

   “Suppose it might well be 'im then - like as not that's how they met, he'll have been roped into the organising of that big do she put on,” and Stannis emits a sound like a train whistle strangled mid-stream and then pushes away from his desk violently and stands up, shouting,

 

 

   “I'M GOING OUT!” before storming off with a slamming of doors behind him which is both uncharacteristic and unnecessary, leaving Davos alone in the office with a half-eaten biscuit in his hand and a bland expression on his face.

 

 

   “Right then - I'll just mind the place, shall I?” he mutters to himself, before philosophically shoving the remainder of the biscuit into his mouth and reaching for the discarded report.

 

 

   -

 

 

   Not half an hour later Stannis Baratheon steps into his daughter's floristry for the first time ever and makes his way to the counter to stand in front of her with a stiff demeanour and a rigid back.

 

 

   She meets his gaze coolly.

 

 

   “Father, always a pleasure,” she greets him cordially, and he nods at her.

 

 

   “Shireen, you're looking well,” he manages, and with those formalities concluded he readies his first shot across the bow and begins,

 

 

   “I've come to speak to you in person because I have received some disturbing news regarding your - ”

 

 

   “Just a moment father,” she interrupts him, causing a nerve below his eye to twitch because he can't recall a day in recent memory where he has been interrupted so often or so carelessly by everyone he's spoken to and it is beginning to wear on his nerves, but then his daughter turns a blinding smile on someone who pushes past Stannis around a stand of foliage in a rush of tangled curls and torn trousers, and a hasty,

 

 

   “'Scuse me,” to duck behind the counter, grab Shireen by the waist and plant a kiss on her which sees Stannis snap his gaze to an anonymous bit of greenery to his far right so he can't follow these scandalous proceedings even with his peripheral vision, and then the intruder announces that it's safe to look back by saying,

 

 

   “Sorry love, flying visit - off to rehearsals but I've put my wallet somewhere daft - couldn't touch you for a tenner could I?”

 

 

   The nerve twitches with greater insistence as Stannis watches his daughter smile indulgently, open the till, and pull out twenty pounds, which she hands over to this scoundrel without an apparent second thought, kissing his cheek and telling him,

 

 

   “Of course you can. See you later, enjoy,” and this intolerable, grasping interloper _grins_ at her and tells her,

 

 

   “Thanks, love, see you at home,” and then tears off with another,

 

 

   “'Scuse me,” as he brushes past Stannis, and Shireen's smile fades by degrees as the young man leaves and she focuses on Stannis once more.

 

 

   “I'm sorry father, you were saying?” she opens with, polite but distant, and Stannis loses his grasp on self-control.

 

 

   “Yes, I bloody well was saying!” he erupts,

 

 

   “I was saying that I've come to see you to have some very disturbing rumours dispelled, and instead, I can see that my worst fears are confirmed and you've attached yourself to some parasitic grifter!”

 

 

   “That was Rickon Stark, father,” Shireen informs him coldly, expression utterly neutral,

 

 

   “And I'll thank you not to insult him groundlessly.”

 

 

   “Groundlessly!” Stannis scoffs,

 

 

   “Did I not just see him waltz in here and stick his hand in the till like he owns the place? What decent, solvent young man sponges off young ladies in that shameless way, I ask you? And what's all this irresponsible claptrap about misplacing his wallet - I never heard such a ridiculous lie in all my life! I suppose he's on the stage, too, to compound matters, is that where he was off to in such a damned hurry?”

 

 

   “You saw no such thing,” Shireen counters with bite,

 

 

   “I gave him that money - it's not as if he robbed me of it, and I'm not going to starve for want of twenty pounds even if I never do see it again, which I can assure you I will, not that it's any concern of _yours_ \- ” she overrides his incredulous exclamation by continuing tartly,

 

 

   “As for where he's going, if you must know, he's a drummer and his band rehearses at this time every week.”

 

 

   “A drummer!” Stannis repeats in strangled tones,

 

 

   “Shireen, you can't mean this - you can't seriously mean to tell me that you've attached yourself to this - ”

 

 

   “Steady,” Shireen warns him, but Stannis finishes strong with,

 

 

   “ - this penniless, shiftless _layabout!_ ”

 

 

   “Now look here,” Shireen says darkly, but it's much too late for that.

 

 

   “I would never have believed this if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes,” Stannis declares in denunciating, dolorous tones,

 

 

   “My own daughter - I despaired when you announced your intentions to do that silly degree of yours and spend your inheritance on floristry, but at least you've clearly managed to make a thriving, sound business of it, and I can admit that I was wrong on that front, but _this!_ This - _absurd_ connection - ”

 

 

   “That's a bit rich coming from you,” Shireen interjects cuttingly, but Stannis ignores it to go on with condemning disbelief,

 

 

   “And did I actually hear the louse say he'd see you ' _at home_ '? You're not _living_ with him, surely? Shireen, I implore you to reconsider and see sense - ”

 

 

   “I hardly think _you're_ any authority on sensible decision-making when it comes to partners,” Shireen snaps,

 

 

   “But yes, we are living together, what of it?”

 

 

   Stannis practically staggers at the news, so great a blow is it - which is to say his posture suffers slightly, and he demands,

 

 

   “Shireen, tell me you have not invited that wastrel into your home! What on earth possessed you to - ”

 

 

   “Whom I choose to live with in my own house is my own business,” Shireen interrupts angrily,

 

 

   “And why shouldn't I? What possible reason could you have for objecting to this? It doesn't affect you in the slightest, what do you mean by coming by and sticking your oar in at the nth hour like this?”

 

 

   “I will not stand idly by and watch my only child be taken advantage of by some obvious scrounging rake - ” Stannis vows, and Shireen narrows her eyes and hisses,

 

 

   “Then I'll thank you to leave my establishment and take your unwanted opinions and misinformed judgment elsewhere!”

 

 

   “Misinformed I am not - I have it on excellent authority that tattered oik was disowned following a run-in with the law, and I won't stand to see him drag you down to his level as well - you are _my_ daughter - ”

 

 

   “How conveniently you recall that fact when you want something or feel the need to meddle in my affairs!” Shireen cuts across bitterly,

 

 

   “You didn't take my advice when _you_ attached yourself to a parasite, what makes you think you have any kind of right to come into my shop and waste my time trying to dictate to me about who is and is not a suitable companion for me?”

 

 

   “That was completely different - ” Stannis defends himself, and Shireen snorts.

 

 

   “It was not! It was precisely the same, and you've learnt nothing from it,” she tells him with exasperated rage,

 

 

   “Now if you don't mind, I have a thriving business to run and I don't have to listen to this unsolicited meddling, kindly leave the way you came and don't bother getting in touch again if you can't be civil!”

 

 

   “ _Shireen!_ ” Stannis exclaims, shocked, but she sets her mouth firmly and he knows she's enough his child that he'll get no further, so instead he draws himself up with dignity and says,

 

 

   “Well. If that's how you feel, I shall take my leave of you, but when this young man ultimately leads you to ruin, I hope you won't be too proud to come to me for help.”

 

 

   “I wouldn't worry over that if I were you,” Shireen tells him savagely,

 

 

   “I know you can't be relied upon. Do take care, won't you father. Try not to trip over any spread-eagled redheads on your way out.”

 

 

   It is with a stiff back and a frozen face that Stannis beats his retreat, but a retreat it is, for he has no comeback to that barb, and he wonders as he goes whether his daughter was always so thorny, but more than that he wonders whether perhaps he hasn't made a glaring error.

 

 

   -

 

 

   By evening, Stannis is certain that he's made a glaring error.

 

 

   Not just by barging into his daughter's life after months of little to no contact and interfering with her personal business, but by allowing their relationship to deteriorate to the point that it has, and after conferring with Davos on the matter and being told that if he were not Davos' employer he'd call Stannis an ignorant tit but instead he'd offer gentle encouragement for Stannis to go and make amends, Stannis is now stood outside Shireen's house and waiting for her to answer the door.

 

 

   He hasn't called ahead, fearing that he might be told to hop it before he's even set foot in her driveway, but her car is outside and so he feels reasonably assured that she must be in. He hopes she will forgive him for coming so late, in every sense of the matter.

 

 

   He's only ever been here once, with Melisandre, to a disastrous tea where Stannis announced that he was going to marry again, and Shireen announced that he was a fool. In hindsight, he was a fool. He blames his suspicion of others on that terrible lapse in judgment, and on his fear that the same will befall Shireen, because he knows only too well that like him his daughter hasn't known much positive attention in her life and so is an easy victim for those who know how to play on that like a fine instrument.

 

 

   There's so much he's failed to protect her from. He can't bear for this to be another to add to that long list, but he also can't bear to be on it himself for a moment longer.

 

 

   A dog barks loudly inside the house when he rings the bell again - he had no idea Shireen owned a dog, or any pet for that matter - but when she opens the door, there's no sign of one.

 

 

   She looks wary, and he can't fault her for that, but her voice is cool and her expression collected when she says,

 

 

   “Father. This is a surprise.”

 

 

   “I apologise for calling so late,” he tells her sincerely,

 

 

   “May I come in?”

 

 

   “If you must,” she says coldly, and leads the way indoors to the kitchen, where she stands with her arms crossed by the counter and fixes him with an unimpressed look.

 

 

   “I take it there was something you wanted,” she prompts after a moment's silence which for Stannis is positively dithering, and he sets his jaw and looks her squarely in the eye and says,

 

 

   “Yes, I wanted to say - ”

 

 

   “Shireen, who was at the - oh,” comes the unwelcome interruption of the tousled Stark from earlier, now if possible even more tousled, and Stannis glares at him briefly before he can master his expression and nod curtly at the lad, who gives him the once-over before drifting to Shireen's side and kissing her temple, telling her,

 

 

   “I'll take Shaggy for a walk then. You alright?”

 

 

   The last is in an undertone but with genuine concern, and Stannis looks away briefly as his daughter nods, and tries not to listen when she replies softly,

 

 

   “Just fine. See you shortly,” and the Stark boy says,

 

 

   “Alright,” and leaves without a backwards glance, only to reappear moments later in the doorway with an immense dog which gives Stannis a haughty look as it passes, and the scruffy youth frowns at Shireen for a moment and then seems to remember something and digs in his pocket with a muttered,

 

 

   “Hang on,” before pulling out a crisp fifty pound note and placing it on the table carelessly, remarking,

 

 

   “In case dinner comes while we're out,” and then once man and beast have left, Stannis is alone with his daughter once more and can think of nothing to say but,

 

 

   “I didn't know you'd acquired a dog.”

 

 

   “Shaggydog belongs to Rickon,” she informs him, and then with rather less patience,

 

 

   “Why are you here, father?”

 

 

   “It strikes me that I've been selfish and unfair,” he tells her with genuine contrition,

 

 

   “I had no right to pass judgment on whom you choose to consort with and I had no right to presume to tell you your own business. I apologise unreservedly, and hope you can forgive me. I also hope,” he goes on, less assuredly,

 

 

   “That you can forgive me for allowing my mistakes to drive a wedge between us. You're my only child Shireen, and I do love you. I can't make up for my past poor judgment, but if you're willing to allow it, I can try to do better in future.”

 

 

   “I see...” Shireen mulls it over, tapping her forefinger against her arm, and finally she nods, and looks at him squarely, agreeing,

 

 

   “We can try.”

 

 

   “Thank you,” Stannis says seriously, and Shireen tilts her chin at him.

 

 

   “If you apologise to Rickon,” she adds as a strict condition, and Stannis sighs.

 

 

   “I will apologise,” he promises her,

 

 

   “Although I hate to think where he got that fifty - ” and at Shireen's instant warning look he holds up his hands and hastily adds,

 

 

   “I'm joking, I'm joking - honestly, Shireen, if you'll vouch for the boy, that's all there is to it and I wish you happy, truly!”

 

 

   “Good,” she says sharply,

 

 

   “Because he's not penniless or disowned, not that any of that would _matter_ \- far from it. And he believes in tipping, which as you say yourself is a mark of quality. Every bit of change from that is going to the delivery person,” and then she pauses and in a low, firm tone finishes,

 

 

   “And he likes me, father. And we get on. And he isn't going anywhere.”

 

 

   “Sensible of him,” Stannis says promptly,

 

 

   “As long as he makes you happy, I'm glad to hear it.”

 

 

   “Good,” she says curtly, then gestures towards the kettle and asks,

 

 

   “Won't you have a cup of tea?”

 

 

   Stannis leaves that evening after Rickon Stark has returned, massive hound in tow, having shaken the boy's hand and wished him every good turn and apologised for judging him hastily in his concern for Shireen's wellbeing. His faith that they have all turned a positive corner is rewarded the next day over lunch when a courier delivers a beautiful bouquet to his office with a card reading,

 

 

   ' _From your affectionate daughter, Shireen._ '

 

 

   -

 

 

   At a non-chain upmarket high-street florist, a young man places kisses along the shoulders of a young woman standing at the counter, carefully pasting a picture of a flower arrangement into a large book above a handwritten description of the materials used and their archaic meanings.

 

 

   “If he ever reads your Masters or looks up any of those flowers, he's going to have a fit,” Rickon remarks idly, moving Shireen's hair away from the curve of her neck, and she hums.

 

 

   “People don't bother with that sort of thing. Look how pleased your mother was with that big arrangement you ordered, it never occurred to her that it might have any other meaning than as a thoughtful present on the occasion of her getting that award for charitable works,” she replies vaguely, concentrating on the task before her, and Rickon sighs.

 

 

   “Shame really - you spent all that time getting it just right,” he laments, then grins wickedly and adds,

 

 

   “Still - bloody glorious when she came in here and ordered all those giant copies of it for her rotten gala! If she only knew!”

 

 

   At his gleeful outburst, Shireen reaches up to pat his cheek and comments,

 

 

   “You can tell her if you ever want to give her a heart attack, dear. I'll lend you the book.”

 

 

   “You are,” Rickon says solemnly, placing heartfelt kisses above her collarbone,

 

 

   “Thoughtful and talented and gorgeous and _delicious_. Let's close up and go to lunch.”

 

 

   “I have work to do,” Shireen reminds him, and he shrugs.

 

 

   “Well, if you're too busy to let me take you to lunch properly, we could always just go and have it off in the back room while the book dries,” he suggests reasonably, and Shireen considers it.

 

 

   “Yes let's,” she decides, smiling up at him and cooing,

 

 

   “You're so resourceful, darling.”

 

 

   As the young lovers retire to the back room, the ink on the book dries.

 

 

   Under the newly-pasted picture is the following description:

 

 

   _Cardamine_ \- **paternal error** ; _Rose, Yellow_ \- **forgive and forget** ; _Aster, Single_ \- **I will think of it** ; _Crocus_ \- **abuse not** ; _Cinquefoil_ \- **beloved daughter**.

 

 

   On the opposite page is another picture, of a striking, sumptuous arrangement. Its description reads:

 

 

   _Iris_ \- **I have a message for you** ; _Sorrel_ \- **Parental affection** ; _Moss_ \- **Maternal love** ; _Sorrel, Wood_ \- **Maternal affection** ; _Anemone, Garden_ \- **Forsaken** ; _Straw, Broken_ \- **Rupture of contract** ; _Judas Tree_ \- **Betrayal** ; _Oleander (Rosebay)_ \- **Beware** ; _Carnation, Yellow_ \- **No!** ; _Belvedere_ \- **I declare war against you** ; _Fumitory_ \- **Hatred** ; _Hortensia (Hydrangea)_ \- **You are cold/A Boaster/Heartlessness** ; _Tussilage, sweet-scented, (Coltsfoot)_ \- **Justice shall be done to you** ; _Rosemary_ \- **Remembrance** ; _Birds-foot Trefoil_ \- **Revenge**.

 

 

   Attached to it is a post-it inscribed;

 

 

_'Special order: 50 copies, Catelyn Stark Charity Gala To Benefit Troubled Youth. Scale up x 5.'_

 

 

_-_

 

 

 


End file.
